Furry at Farakka

When Furry arrived, he was barely a month old—small enough to fit comfortably in one’s hands and fluffy enough to resemble a travelling ball of cotton. He was a young Indian Spitz, brought from Kolkata to Farakka by my wife and our only son, Anish. They had received him from a neighbour in Kolkata who apparently believed that a household could never have too much happiness—or fur.

At that time, in the early 1990s, I was posted in Farakka by Bharat Heavy Electricals Limited as the site in-charge for erecting and commissioning two 500-megawatt units for NTPC Limited. My bungalow stood beside the majestic Ganges in the temporary NTPC township. Behind the house lay a large kitchen garden; on one side there was a lawn and on the other a small garage. To Furry, it soon became clear that this entire territory belonged to him.

We named him Furry, because at the beginning that was all he seemed to be—fur with a nose. But within a few months his face began to emerge from that cloud of hair like a commander stepping out of camouflage, and along with it appeared a definite personality—almost an attitude.

Dogs, I discovered, have very firm opinions about humans.

Consider the matter of biscuits.

Whenever he received one, Furry would sometimes dash to the kitchen garden, dig a small hole, and carefully bury it. The first time I witnessed this behaviour I asked him, “Why are you doing that?”

Furry looked at me with the tolerant expression of a professor dealing with a slow student.

Emergency storage, his eyes seemed to say.

You humans build power plants for future needs. We bury biscuits. Same principle.

One winter Sunday I was reclining in the lawn with a book when Furry appeared carrying a rubber ball. He dropped it beside my chair and barked.

Translation: Move your lazy bottom. We are going to play.

I ignored him.

He barked again.

Throw.

So I threw.

He ran, fetched the ball, returned, and dropped it again. Thus began my training.

Contrary to popular belief, dogs do not learn tricks from humans. Humans learn tricks from dogs. Soon I had mastered several essential commands: throw the ball, shake hands, and surrender food. Furry could even stand on his hind legs to reach whatever I happened to be eating.

There was no specialised dog food in those days. He simply ate whatever we ate.

Good, he seemed to think.

Shared diet. Shared intelligence.

He was particularly fond of travelling in our car, a loyal little Maruti 800. Sometimes, merely to keep the battery charged, I would start the engine while he sat in the back seat. The vibration convinced him the vehicle was moving.

He would sit upright, gazing seriously out of the window like an important passenger.

My father, who was staying with us then, found this enormously amusing.

“Furry!” he would call.

But Furry remained completely absorbed in his journey.

I am travelling, his posture seemed to say.

Please do not disturb.

His favourite place in the house, however, was directly in front of the kitchen when my wife was cooking. There he would sit like a vigilant supervisor of culinary operations.

Yes, his eyes would say approvingly,

that looks correct.

Throughout the day he followed my wife faithfully while I was busy at the plant dealing with boilers, turbines, and human complications.

Yet he possessed one remarkable talent—he could recognise the sound of my car from far away. The moment the Maruti approached the bungalow gate, he would begin barking excitedly.

Finally, the bark meant.

What kept you so long?

Once I entered the house he would follow me and settle beneath my chair. When I scratched behind his ears—an area dogs cannot easily reach themselves—he would close his eyes in quiet satisfaction.

Acceptable service, he seemed to say.

Diwali, however, was the worst time for him. The explosions of firecrackers terrified him. My wife would wrap a muffler gently around his ears and place him inside the Maruti with the doors closed to reduce the noise.

Even then he would tremble and look at us with deep reproach.

You humans, that look clearly said,

are remarkably inventive when it comes to unnecessary noise.

Those two and a half years at Farakka were perhaps the happiest period of Furry’s life. For me, the site posting was among the most demanding of my career.

But every evening after returning from the plant, burdened with technical issues and management puzzles, I would sit in the lawn and talk to him.

“I have a problem at the site,” I would say.

Furry would listen patiently.

Simple, his calm eyes seemed to suggest.

Think. Dig. Store the solution. Just like biscuits.

Strangely enough, many problems became clearer after such conversations.

In the end I realised something important: while we believed we had adopted Furry, it was actually Furry who had adopted us—supervising meals, monitoring vehicles, maintaining morale, and occasionally offering silent advice on engineering management.

Not bad for a creature who began life looking like a ball of fur.